poem: he likely would have found me by chance and declared me a talented writer

her farce was weirdly unenviable; she said — this man,
he would find little savior/fellow struggler
fellow bearer of what is what is
and then (camera wink) isnt it so ironic to ask
what is, when we are standing here, and we
know. he would find this in
me. i write my manifesto, i slug along to
meetings with nothing left to give.
I am doing no meetings – the way the words look
pound themselves out / the precise description
of the brick is already
in the brick (wrote delillo to) — she said, I cannot
say his name, my own American
idol. I know understand your over-identification
with the author; the transformation is shifted
from art to the artist, we sit at his feet
and the prose shrieks/sings, it knows and it knows
and it knows. (I cannot (under)stand
the ending to this poem – I cannot hear
it).